Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 19
                                   
Click page 1

Click page 2

Click page 3

Click page 4

Click page 5

Click page 6

Click page 7

Click page 8

Click page 9

Click page 10

Click page 11

Click page 12

Click page 13

Click page 14

Click page 15

Click page 16

Click page 17

Click page 18

Click page 20

The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


Men Without Faces

Men with guns, in fire fights,
with body armor and without,
firing for effect;
scene of the crimes, marked with
yellow tape, Caucasian chalk circles,
blood stains and hair mats;
evidence everywhere, spent shells,
shattered glass, crack baggies and
pipes;
stolen cars, crotch rockets, ride 'em
as if you stole 'em impact impressions,
exploded plate glass, downed power polls,
trees;
heads behind dirt smeared windows,
see nothing empty of expression
eyes, TV remote muted flat screens,
blood and sand in the street, no sound
necessary;
bodies without faces, road rashed
and fucked up beyond recognition,
cell phone text messages from hell
in cargo pants pockets, first responders
half a continent away;
hours without minutes, clocks without
hands, smell of cordite, of gasoline,
of death;
men without faces and the arms that
they bear.

                            Alan Catlin

The Argument

The canvas begins with a bucket
of blood

                         She says, It's not enough
He disagrees

                               A pound of flesh is added

Tacky, she says, obvious

The ceiling fixtures are removed by force
Hot wires are exposed
bulb glass is compressed beneath bare feet
tubes of paint are opened like veins

Incomplete and out of focus, she says

He disagrees

Another pound of flesh is added



                            Alan Catlin

Collecting Turned To Hoarding


From inside my head
to my computer screen,
I collect storybook ideas.
Too many to count or mention
each range from simple objects:
a noose, golden tokens, ghosts, and fire shaped bodies,
to basic concepts, such as a black stallion conjured with red eyes
and the ability to breath fire.
Each waits to be a poem or a short story.
They still wait,
even after I collect more,
until I can develop their forms.
Once I develop their forms,
they still wait for publication.

                            David Hernandez

_______________________________________________________

Constantly Needing a Push


For smoking a cigarette
too much around my house,
my lungs collapsed
and now I need my parents
to carry me around town.

I don't need any help,
I can move on my own.
I don't need to apply for a job,
nobody's hiring.

Neither whippings
nor an electroshock weapon
can make me move.

If I fall, I won't get up.

The coughing is getting worse.

Blood spills
and I'm forced to lie still.

Maybe I could apply
to the hospital
as a living patient.

                            David Hernandez